OF    THE    LATE 


WILLIAM    B.   0.   PEABODY,   D.D. 


EDITED    BY 

EVERETT     PEABODY 


BOSTON 


PUBLISHED   BY   BENJAMIN   H.    GREENE. 

124,  WASIIIXGTOX-STREET. 

HEW  YORK  :  CHAS.  B.  NORTON. C.  S.  FRANCIS  AND  CO. 

LONDON  :  JOHN  CHAPMAN. 

1850. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

B.  H.  GREENE, 

Tn  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED      BY      JOHN      WILSON, 

No.  21,  School-street. 


P REE ACE 


It  was  intimated  in  the  volume  containing  the  Memoir 
and  Sermons  of  Dr.  Peabody,  that  a  collection  of  his  .Mis- 
cellaneous Writings  would  be  published.  Accordingly, 
the  present  selection  has  been  prepared  from  his  numer- 
ous contributions  to  the  "  North  American  Review." 
These  were  written  at  different  periods  from  1830  to  184G. 
They  embrace  a  number  of  favorite  subjects,  and  illustrate 
the  extensive  research,  the  enthusiastic  love  of  nature,  the 
delicate  perception  of  moral  beauty,  and  the  lofty  and 
uncompromising  standard  of  right,  which,  blended  toge- 
ther by  his  quiet  humor,  always  characterized  him.  In 
selecting  the  articles  for  publication,  the  object  has  been 
to  give  those  which  have  been  marked  out  as  best  by 
public  opinion,  and  those  which  seemed  to  give  the  most 
faithful  picture  of  his  mind  and  heart.  Omissions  have 
been  made  only  when  dictated  by  the  necessity  of  reduc- 
ing the  article  within  proper  limits,  and  then  such  parts 
have  been  omitted  as  were  not  necessary  to  the  connec- 
tion or  value  of  the  article. 

It  has  been  thought  by  some  of  Dr.  Peabody's  friends, 
that  a  volume  of  his  Miscellanies  would  be  incomplete 
without  a  selection  from  his  Poetical  Writings.  At  their 
suggestion,  those  which  seemed  most  worthy  to  be  pre- 
served have  been  brought  together,  and  arc  placed  at  the 
end  of  the  volume. 


(  ()  N  T  E  N  rr  s. 


REVIEWS. 

Page 

Studies  in  Poetbt     ........  1 

Byron            30 

American  Forest-tbees    .......  62 

Hatuts  or  Insect-  ........ 

Biography  of  Birds           .          .          .          .          .          .          .  137 

Men  or  Letters  and  Science,  Art.  I.           ....  199 

Men*  of  Letters  and  Science,  Art.  II.     .         .         .         .  249 

Addison          ..........  295 

Margaret           .........  379 

POETRY. 

To  the  Memory  or  a  Young  Lady  .  .  .  .  .413 

The  Departure         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  ±15 

Lines  on  Dying      .........  ±19 

The  Land  of  rHE  Blest    .......  123 

►on 424 

Autumn  Evening 425 

Lament  of  Anastasius          .......  126 

To  a  Young  Lady.  o:<  ki.<  BrvrNG  a  Present  of  Flo-webs  .  ±29 

MoNADNOCK 

■  Infant       ...... 

"  And  the  Watebs  weke  abated  "    ..... 

"  man  giveth  up  the  ghost,  and  whebe  is  he  ?  "          .         .  438 

Peek  lbs I  :o 

Links  ro  ........ 


REVIEWS. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/remainsoOOpeab 


POETRY 


POETRY. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY, 


■>EEX     FOR     THE     FUST     TIME     OX     A     SPEIXG     MOR.VIXC, 


I  love  the  memory  of  the  hour 

When  first  in  youth  I  found  thee ; 
For  infant  beauty  gently  threw 

A  morning  freshness  round  thee. 
A  single  star  was  rising  then 

With  mild  and  lovely  motion, 
And  scarce  the  zephyr's  mildest  breath 

Went  o'er  the  sleeping  ocean. 

I  love  the  memory  of  that  hour  : 

It  wakes  a  pensive  feeling, 
As  when  within  the  winding  shell 

The  playful  winds  are  stealing. 
It  tells  my  heart  of  those  bright  years 

Ere  hope  went  down  in  sorrow, 
When  all  the  joys  of  yesterday 

Were  painted  on  to-morrow. 
35* 


414  TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

Where  art  thou  now  ?     Thy  once-loved  flowers 

Their  yellow  leaves  are  twining, 
And  bright  and  beautiful  again 

That  single  star  is  shining. 
But  where  art  thou  ?     The  bended  grass 

A  dewy  stone  discloses, 
And  love's  light  footsteps  print  the  ground 

Where  all  my  peace  reposes. 

Farewell !  my  tears  are  not  for  thee  : 

'Twere  weakness  to  deplore  thee, 
Or  vainly  mourn  thine  absence  here, 

While  angels  half  adore  thee. 
Thy  days  were  few,  and  quickly  told  ; 

Thy  short  and  mournful  story 
Hath  ended  like  the  morning  star, 

That  melts  in  deeper  glory. 

1816. 


415 


' 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


How  slow  and  peacefully  the  broad  red  moon 
Glides  down  the  bending  sky  !     All  still ! 
She  seems  to  smile  upon  those  sounding  waves 
That  lift  their  thundering  voices  to  the  heaven, 
As  if  they  mourned  her  solitude  of  march 
Above  the  waste  of  waters.     But  now  she  leans 
Upon  their  breast,  and  pours  her  liberal  ray  : 
The  distant  mountains  drink  the  yellow  light, 
The  dark-red  rocks  extend  their  giant-shades, 
Long  paths  of  glory  kindle  in  the  deep, 
And  there  far-shadowed  on  the  sea-beat  shore 
The  silent  forests  on  their  aged  head 
Receive  the  glittering  crown ;  or,  dimly  seen, 
Some  small  white  sail  flings  up  an  airy  glance, 
And  smiles  a  light  farewell. 

The  lantern  glimmers  on  the  distant  beach  ; 
The  barge  stands  waiting  for  its  outward  flight ; 
Those  hurrying  forms  exchange  a  short  embrace  ; 
Some  as  in  sorrow  slowly  move  away, 
While  others  leap  with  gay  and  youthful  bound 
Where  the  shrill  whistle  loudly  calls  away 
To  the  wide  ocean,  their  familiar  home. 
The  light  boat  dances  by  the  unbending  side 
Of  that  black  ship  that  sideway  slowly  swings  ; 
Her  streamers  winding  in  the  playful  breeze, 
Her  broad  sail  heaving  in  the  midnight  air. 


416  THE    DEPARTURE. 

And  who  is  she,  the  lovely  form,  that  leans 
Intensely  gazing  on  the  weltering  waves  ? 
Is  it  that,  musing  on  their  stormy  play 
In  the  forge tfulness  of  youthful  joy, 
Her  home,  her  friends,  her  country,  all  depart  ? 
Or,  in  the  anguish  of  the  parting  hour, 
Dares  she  not  even  indulge  in  one  last  glance 
Where  the  still  moonbeam  in  its  dewy  light 
Sleeps  on  the  boundary  of  the  far-off  hills  ? 
Within  the  friendly  circle  of  those  hills, 
For  ever  open  to  the  smile  of  heaven, 
She  leaves  a  peaceful  home. 

There,  in  the  freshness  of  the  youthful  spring, 
Together  we  have  drunk  the  gales  of  morn, 
When  we  have  followed  the  new-opened  flower, 
Our  light  steps  dashing  from  the  bended  grass 
The  dew-drops  reddening  in  the  rising  sun, 
When  Autumn  hung  upon  the  dying  year 
Her  pensive  wreath  so  wild,  so  fanciful ; 
Together  we  have  marked  the  evening  cloud, 
When  the  bright  ridges  of  the  western  hill 
Seemed  slowly  melting  in  the  burning  heaven ; 
Together  we  have  watched  the  star  of  love 
Walking  with  lonely  step  the  silent  blue, 
Before  the  deep-thronged  armies  of  the  night 
Began  their  pathway  up  the  glowing  skies. 
Oh !  there  was  rapture  in  that  pensive  hour, 
There  was  deep  harmony  in  nature's  silence ; 
For  angels  breathe  their  anthems  on  the  heart, 
That  walks  its  circle  on  the  waves  of  life. 
As  peacefully  as  thine. 

There,  in  the  winter  night, 


THE    DEPARTURE.  417 

The  deep  storm,  rushing  on  the  sounding  blast, 
Howls  round  the  windows  of  thy  former  home. 
Within,  the  embers  cast  a  fitful  glow ; 
The  tall  shade  trembles  on  the  dusky  wall, 
And  the  red  fire-light  on  each  cheerful  face 
Paints  the  calm  lines  of  innocence  and  peace. 
One  chair  is  vacant !  how  it  wakes  the  thought 
That  hurries  onward  to  the  ocean-stream, 
And  swiftly  follows  in  thy  venturous  way, 
Till  from  the  rapture  of  the  dream  we  wake, 
Wondering  thou  art  not  there  :   and  when  we  bow 
With  reverent  heart,  and  raise  the  nightly  prayer 
When  the  fond  soul  bears  all  its  loves  to  heaven, 
We  breathe  thy  name  with  many  a  fond  desire 
That  He  whose  spirit  is  on  the  stormy  wave, 
Who  rules  the  heaven,  and  dwells  in  virtuous  hearts, 
Would  still  remember  thee. 

Oft  at  night, 
In  the  wild  fancies  of  the  troubled  sleep, 
When  rosy-fingered  spirits  wind  the  dream 
Around  the  slumberer's  heart,  thy  well-known  bark 
With  homeward  step  shall  walk  the  joyous  waves, 
And  dash  the  kindling  spray  ;  the  mariner 
Breathe  in  the  freshness  of  his  native  airs, 
And  pour  the  fulness  of  his  grateful  heart 
In  the  inspiring  song :   thou  too  art  there, 
Thy  dark  hair  floating  on  the  morning  wind, 
Thy  bright  eye  fixed  with  long  and  burning  gaze 
On  thy  dear  native  home ;   then,  while  I  mark 
The  passionate  laugh,  the  recognizing  glance, 
The  airy  vessel  calmly  melts  away. 
Then  the  black  terrors  of  the  storm  arise, 
Waked  by  the  echoes  of  the  angry  sea ; 


4 IS  THE    DEPARTURE. 

The  lightning-flash  throws  wide  its  gusty  light, 
The  deep-mouthed  thunder  rolls  its  rattling  wheels, 
A  far-off  cry  expires  upon  the  seas  ! 
Was  it  the  music  of  the  passing  bell 
Swelling  the  cadence  of  the  dying  gale  ? 
A  shade  at  first ;  but  now,  too  plainly  seen, 
She  floats  upon  the  white  edge  of  the  wave ; 
The  morning  light  is  on  her  marble  face ; 
The  wind  lifts  playfully  her  flowing  hair 
In  gay  embrace  ;  her  pale  extended  arm, 
Heaved  with  the  rolling  of  the  element, 
Invites  me  with  a  slow  mysterious  motion, 
How  dreadful  in  the  eloquence  of  death ! 
As  in  the  ruins  of  that  lovely  form 
Affection  lingered  still.     But  thou,  my  friend, 
Whom  we  lament  with  unavailing  tears, 
Art  numbered  in  the  heaven :   no  tear  profane, 
Xo  sad  remembrance,  lingers  there  to  dim 
Thine  own  excelling  glory. 

Only  a  dream !  and  thou  mayest  still  return 

To  that  loved  home,  whose  well-remembered  charms 

Long  years  of  absence  have  not  worn  away : 

But  the  warm  friends  of  youth  shall  not  be  there, 

And  strange  inhabitants  shall  coldly  tell 

How  the  old  tenants  of  that  happy  place 

Have  closed  their  eyes  in  peace ;  their  parting  breath 

Spent  in  last  blessings  on  their  favorite  child, 

On  her,  the  far-away ;  and  he,  the  one 

Who  heard  the  accents  of  thy  last  farewell, 

And  loved  thee  with  a  never-failing  love, 

Went  to  the  grave  alone. 


419 


LINES  ON  DYING. 


My  hour  is  come  ;  but  no  unthought-of  hour, 
Whose  gloomy  presence  chills  my  soul  with  dread. 
It  steals  as  gently  o'er  my  weary  heart, 
As  the  fond  parent's  footsteps  round  the  cradle 
Where  innocent  beauty  sleeps.     I've  looked  for  it 
Since  the  first  opening  of  my  youthful  mind  : 
Sometimes  in  hours  of  gladness  would  the  thought, 
Calmly  as  angels'  voices  heard  in  dreams, 
Forbid  the  unmeaning  laugh  of  careless  joy, 
And  melt  each  feeling  into  pensive  sadness. 
Sometimes  in  midnight  musings,  when  the  soul 
Was  weary  of  existence,  it  would  come 
In  many  a  flash  of  wild  and  strange  delight. 
I  found  no  pleasure  in  the  youthful  spring, 
Nor  the  bright  kindlings  of  the  morning  cloud  ; 
My  spirit  lingered  on  the  waning  year, 
On  the  last  blushes  of  the  sunset  heaven, 
And  the  red  leaf  that  whispered  it  must  fall. 
I  loved  to  gaze  on  beauty,  —  but  'twas  not 
The  airy  form,  and  features  bright  with  smiles, 
But  the  pale  cheek  where  death  had  gently  laid 
•His  first  light  touch,  and  left  it  lovely  still. 
I've  lain  for  hours  beneath  the  aged  tree 
That  casts  its  shadow  o'er  the  homes  of  death, 
When  evening  sunshine  slept  on  every  leaf, 
And  all  around  was  still ;   I've  marked  the  graves, 
Some  nameless  as  I  would  my  own  should  be, 


420  LINES    ON    DYING. 

Some  graved  with  all  the  high  parade  of  death, 

Some  with  low  stones  and  moss  fast  creeping  o'er  them, 

As  cold  oblivion  gathers  o'er  the  names 

Of  those  who  rest  below  ;  then  I  dismissed 

Life  and  its  changes  from  my  heart  awhile, 

And  thought  of  death  till  it  became  familiar. 

I  thought  the  humblest  unremembered  one 

Was  laid  there  with  a  sigh,  —  some  with  warm  tears, 

Some  with  the  grief  that  time  could  never  heal, 

With  love  enduring  as  the  aching  heart, 

Whose  love  became  despair ;  and  could  it  be, 

That  souls  once  full  of  high  and  heavenly  musing, 

Souls  that  could  chain  affection  to  their  graves, 

Were  mingling  with  the  dust  that  closed  them  in  ? 

No  :   the  long  grass  springs  yearly  from  their  bed, 

The  violet  there  renews  its  tender  flower, 

And  sure  the  image  of  the  heavenly  nature 

Is  durable  as  they  :   oh  !  you  may  close  the  coffin, 

Heap  high  the  earth  upon  their  breast,  or  bind 

The  rocky  arches  of  the  ponderous  tomb  ; 

The  soul  will  burst  its  bondage,  —  yes,  will  smile 

At  those  memorials  man  felt  bound  to  raise, 

While  it  springs  upward  to  its  native  home. 

Oft  in  its  loneliest  watches  of  the  night, 
When  silence  rested  on  the  slumbering  world, 
When  the  leaf  stirred  not ;  but,  serene  in  heaven, 
The  moon  and  stars  went  on  their  glorious  way, 
And  the  winds  dared  not  breathe  while  earth  lay  stilt, 
And  wondered  at  their  beauty,  —  I  have  thought 
If,  when  the  weary  cares  of  life  are  ended, 
My  spirit  might  have  rest  in  fields  of  light, 
And  dwell  in  mansions  calm  and  blest  as  they. 
Why  might  it  not  ?  'tis  clay  that  binds  it  down. 


LINES    ON    DYING.  421 

But  oft  even  now  the  spirit  throws  off  its  chains, 
And  hurries  upward  through  the  vast  of  heaven, 
Beyond  heaven's  utmost  bounds,  —  even  now  it  ranges 
Beyond  the  farthest  star,  whose  fainting  ray 
Seems  trembling  into  darkness,  and  borrows  thence 
Emotions  deep  and  strong  imaginings, 
With  thoughts  more  beautiful  than  earth  affords, 
And  finds  a  friend  in  each  bright  wanderer  there. 

Then  surely  when  the  bands  of  clay  are  loosed, 
And  the  strong  prison  of  the  soul  is  broken, 
It  will  rise  high  above  its  boldest  flight, 
Above  its  cares,  above  its  joys  and  sorrows  ; 
And  rest  not  till  it  breathes  the  heavenly  air, 
And  folds  its  pinions  at  the  throne  of  God. 

Then  welcome  death  !  the  valley's  clods  are  sweet. 
The  once  faint  heart  is  mightier  than  the  grave. 
Lay  me  to  rest  beneath  the  aged  tree 
Which  many  a  year  hath  bent  its  hoary  head 
In  musing  o'er  those  small  round  hills  of  green, 
While  many  a  ruin  of  the  form  divine, 
The  young  and  beautiful,  the  old  and  gray, 
Have  sunk  in  frailty  at  the  glance  of  death, 
And  hands  as  frail  have  borne  them  to  their  rest. 
There  oft  I  went  at  evening's  hour  of  peace, 
Looked  o'er  the  field  so  widely  ridged  with  graves, 
And  sadly  pondered  what  it  is  to  die. 

Years  have  passed  by  :   the  ground  is  even  now  ; 
But  there  I  fain  would  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
Where  no  rude  foot  shall  break  the  holy  calm, 
No  sound  be  wakeful  but  the  night-wind's  sigh 
When  the  red  leaves  are  withering  on  my  bed. 
36 


422  LINES    ON    DYING. 

There  the  cold  moon  shall  pour  her  gilding  light, 
And  star-beams  glimmer  through  the  twining  boughs, 
Above  his  rest  who  loved  their  beauty  well. 

The  humblest  one  receives  a  farewell  sigh, 
And  my  departure  may  call  forth  a  tear ; 
For  in  this  dark  world  man  can  weep  for  man. 
But  let  no  pageant  of  unmeaning  grief, 
No  mourning  train,  in  all  the  pride  of  sorrow, 
Go  with  my  ashes  to  their  place  of  rest ; 
And  let  no  stone  oppress  them :   years  may  pass, 
And  friends  forget  where  they  have  laid  me  down ; 
But  let  me  never  raise  the  marble  prayer 
To  ask  remembrance  from  the  stranger's  heart, 
When  love  grows  cold,  and  tears  have  ceased  to  flow. 

1822. 


423 


THE  LAND   OF   THE   BLEST. 


Oh  !  when  the  hours  of  life  are  past, 
And  death's  dark  shadow  falls  at  last, 
It  is  not  sleep,  it  is  not  rest : 
'Tis  glory  opening  to  the  blest. 

Their  way  to  heaven  was  pure  from  sin, 
And  Christ  shall  then  receive  them  in  ; 
There  each  shall  wear  a  robe  of  light, 
Like  his,  divinely  fair  and  bright. 

There  parted  hearts  again  shall  meet 
In  union  holy,  calm,  and  sweet ; 
There  grief  find  rest,  and  never  more 
Shall  sorrow  call  them  to  deplore. 

There  angels  shall  unite  their  prayers 
With  spirits  bright  and  blest  as  theirs ; 
And  light  shall  glance  on  every  crown, 
From  suns  that  never  more  go  down. 

No  storms  shall  ride  the  troubled  air, 
Xo  voice  of  passion  enter  there  ; 
But  all  be  peaceful  as  the  sigh 
Of  evening  gales  that  breathe  and  die. 

For  there  the  God  of  mercy  sheds 
His  purest  influence  on  their  heads, 
And  gilds  the  spirits  round  the  throne 
With  glory  radiant  as  his  own. 


424 


THE  RISING  MOON. 


The  moon  is  up  !  how  calm  and  slow 

She  wheels  above  the  hill ! 
The  weary  winds  forget  to  blow, 

And  all  the  world  lies  still. 

The  way-worn  travellers  with  delight 

Her  rising  brightness  see  ; 
Revealing  all  the  paths  and  plains, 

And  gilding  every  tree. 

It  glistens  where  the  hurrying  stream 

Its  little  rippling  heaves  ; 
It  falls  upon  the  forest-shade, 

And  sparkles  on  the  leaves. 

So  once  on  Judah's  evening  hills 
The  heavenly  lustre  spread  ; 

The  gospel  sounded  from  the  blaze, 
And  shepherds  gazed  with  dread. 

And  still  that  light  upon  the  world 
Its  guiding  splendor  throws, 

Bright  in  the  opening  hours  of  life, 
And  brighter  at  the  close. 

The  waning  moon  in  time  shall  fail 
To  walk  the  midnight  skies  ; 

But  God  hath  kindled  this  bright  light 
With  fire  that  never  dies. 


425 


AUTUMN  EVENING. 


Behold  the  western  evening  light! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom  : 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away, 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  wind  breathes  low ;  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree  : 

So  gently  flows  the  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed ! 
'Tis  like  the  peace  the  Christian  gives 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 

How  mildly  on  the  wandering  cloud 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast ! 
'Tis  like  the  memory  left  behind 

When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now  above  the  dews  of  night 

The  yellow  star  appears  : 
So  faith  springs  in  the  hearts  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glory  shall  restore  ; 
And  eyelids  that  arc  sealed  in  death 

Shall  wake  to  close  no  more. 
36* 


426 


LAMENT  OF  ANASTASIUS. 


The  idea  of  the  following  lines  is  taken  from  that  beautiful  passage  in 
"  Anastasius,"  in  which  he  is  represented  lamenting  the  death  of  his  child 
Alexis :  — 


It  was  but  yesterday,  my  love,  thy  little  heart  beat  high, 
And  I  had  scorned  the  warning  voice  that  told  me  thou 

must  die  ; 
I  saw  thee  move  with  active  bound,  with  spirits  light  and 

free, 
And  infant  grace  and  beauty  gave  their  glorious  charm  to 

thee. 

Upon  the  dewy  field  I  saw  thine  early  footsteps  fly, 
Unfettered  as   the   matin  bird   that   cleaves   the  radiant 

sky; 
And   often   as   the   sunrise   gale  blew  back  thy   shining 

hair, 
Thy  cheek  displayed  the   red-rose  tinge  that  health  had 

painted  there. 

Then,  withered  as  my  heart  had  been,  I  could  not  but 

rejoice 
To  hear  upon  the  morning  wind  the  music  of  thy  voice, 
Now  echoing  in  the  careless  laugh,  now  melting  down  to 

tears : 
'Twas  like  the  sounds  I  used  to  hear  in  old  and  happier 

years. 


LAMENT    OF    ANASTASIUS.  427 

Thanks  for  that  memory  to  thee,  my  lovely  little  boy  ! 
Tis  all  remains  of  former  bliss  that  care  cannot  destroy  ; 
I  listened,  as  the  mariner  suspends  the  out-bound  oar 
To  taste  the  farewell  gale  that  blows  from  off  his  native 
shore. 

I  loved  thee,  and  my  heart  was  blest ;  but,  ere  the  day  was 

spent, 
I  saw  thy  light  and  graceful  form  in  drooping  illness  bent, 
And  shuddered  as  I  cast  a  look  upon  the  fainting  head, 
For  all  the  glow  of  health  was  gone,  and  life  was  almost 

fled. 

One  glance  upon  thy  marble  brow  made  known  that  hope 

was  vain  ; 
I  knew  the  swiftly  wasting  lamp  would  never  light  again  ; 
Thy  cheek  was   pale,   thy   snow-white   lips  were  gently 

thrown  apart, 
And  life  in  every  passing  breath  seemed  gushing  from  the 

heart. 

And,  when  I  could  not  keep  the  tear  from  gathering  in 

my  eye, 
Thy  little  hand  prest  gently  mine  in  token  of  reply  ; 
To  ask  one  more  exchange  of  love,  thy  look  was  upward 

cast, 
And  in  that  long  and  burning  kiss  thy  happy  spirit  passed. 

I  trusted  I  should  not  have  lived  to  bid  farewell  to  thee, 
And  nature  in  my  heart  declares  it  ought  not  so  to  be  ; 
I  hoped  that  thou  within  the  grave  my  weary  head  should 

lay, 
And  live  beloved   when  I   was  gone  for  many  a  happy 

day. 


423  LAMENT    OF    ANASTASIUS. 

With  trembling  hand  I  vainly  tried  thy  dying  eyes  to 

close, 
And  how  I  envied  in  that  hour  thy  calm  and  deep  repose  ! 
For  I  was  left  alone  on  earth,  with  pain  and  grief  opprest ; 
And  thou  wert  with  the  sainted,  where  the  weary  are  at 

rest. 

Yes !  I  am  left  alone  on  earth  ;  but  I  will  not  repine 
Because  a  spirit  loved  so  well  is  earlier  blest  than  mine  : 
My  fate  may  darken  as  it  will,  I  shall  not  much  deplore, 
Since  thou  art  where  the  ills  of  life  can  never  reach  thee 
more. 

1823. 


429 


TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

ON    RECEIVING    A    PRESENT    OP    FLOWERS,    AVIIICII    SHE    CALLED 
EMBLEMS    OF   FRIENDSHIP. 


1  thank  you,  my  dearest  :   'twas  kind  to  send 
A  proof  of  love  to  your  faithful  friend  ; 
And,  though  I  have  long  since  learned  to  fear, 
From  the  hard- won  lesson  of  many  a  year, 
That  the  faithless  heart  very  seldom  shares 
In  the  language  of  feeling  the  tongue  declares, 
1  will  still  believe,  that,  at  least  in  youth, 
There  may  be  a  union  of  friendship  and  truth. 

Besides,  I  am  glad  to  see  the  flowers  ; 
They  remind  my  heart  of  its  greener  hours, 
When  all  the  present,  the  future,  and  past 
Were  a  vision  of  pleasure  too  bright  to  last. 
Emblems  of  friendship  they  may  be  now  ; 
They  are  torn  away  from  their  parent  bough  ; 
But  they  were  not  so  when  they  used  to  stand 
Beneath  the  care  of  a  lovely  hand, 
And  seemed  as  if  grateful  and  proud  to  shed 
Their  fragrance  round  on  their  native  bed  ; 
And  the  light  breeze  whispered  its  joy  to  bear 
Their  perfume  away  to  the  evening  air. 

They  are  like  friendship,  when  noon-day  showers 
Have  torn  them  down  from  their  native  bowers  ; 


430 


TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 


When  cold  and  withered  their  branches  lie 

In  the  careless  steps  of  the  passer-by  : 

Or  when  the  maiden  delights  to  wear 

Their  green  in  the  wreaths  of  her  braided  hair, 

To  brighten  her  charms  on  some  festive  day  ; 

And  then  like  a  friend  to  be  cast  away, 

Or  folded  down  in  some  holy  book, 

In  which  she  is  never  again  to  look  : 

Or  given  away  to  some  favored  youth, 

In  the  silent  language  he  takes  for  truth ; 

To  be  worn  and  worshipped,  and  fondly  pressed 

By  day  and  night  to  his  foolish  breast ; 

Till  he  finds  that  the  flowers  will  be  blooming  on, 

When  the  love  that  gave  them  is  long  since  gone  ; 

And  their  beauty  may  perish  whenever  it  will ; 

The  flowers  of  the  heart  may  be  frailer  still. 

'Tis  the  fault  of  nature  ;  for  ask  your  heart, 
If  its  own  warm  feelings  do  not  depart ; 
If  it  never  breathed  a  delighted  vow 
To  friends  it  will  scarcely  remember  now : 
And  yet  in  yourself  you  do  not  condemn 
The  change  of  feeling  you  censure  in  them. 
Oh  !  no  ;  for  friendship  will  not  be  true  ; 
And  the  radiant  star  of  the  morning  dew, 
Which  the  zephyr  dries  with  its  gentle  wing, 
Is  as  brilliant,  as  fair,  and  as  vain  a  thing. 

I've  seen  the  gaze  of  an  altered  eye, 

And  the  hand  held  from  me  I  knew  not  why  ; 

I've  heard  the  footsteps  of  friends  who  fled, 

When  sickness  hung  over  my  weary  bed  ; 

And  I  thought  that  the  heart  might  be  warmed  as  soon 

By  the  last  cold  ray  of  the  waning  moon. 


TO    A    YOUNG    LADY.  431 

I  would  trust  as  soon  to  the  mete  or- spark 
That  misled  the  course  of  the  shipwrecked  bark, 
As  confide  in  the  perjured,  betraying  kiss 
That  friendship  gives  in  a  world  like  this. 

But  they  were  not  all,  —  and  while  they  were  changed, 
There  were  some  whose  feeling  no  time  estranged  ; 
Whose  words  of  kindness  were  true  to  the  last, 
As  the  leaf  endures  when  summer  is  past. 

Then,  if  there  is  friendship  which  can  be  true, 

May  its  best  affections  be  pledged  to  you  ! 

If  there  are  hearts  you  love  to  cherish, 

If  there  are  feelings  that  will  not  perish, 

May  they  strew  their  blessings  around  your  way, 

From  this  morning  hour  to  your  latest  day  ! 

If  the  hope  that  before  you  so  bright  appears, 

Has  risen  in  smiles  to  go  down  in  tears  ; 

If  the  star  of  promise,  that  blazes  high, 

Be  quenched  in  the  clouds  of  a  stormy  sky  ; 

May  a  hand  as  true,  and  more  dear  than  mine, 

Be  near  to  support  you  in  life's  decline, 

Till  you  reach  the  mansions  of  heavenly  rest, 

Where  friends  unite,  and  their  loves  are  blest  ! 

1824. 


MONADNOCK. 


Upon  the  far-off  mountain's  brow 

The  angry  storm  has  ceased  to  beat, 
And  broken  clouds  are  gathering  now 

In  lowly  reverence  round  his  feet. 
I  saw  their  dark  and  crowded  bands 

On  his  firm  head  in  wrath  descending  ; 
But  there,  once  more  redeemed,  he  stands, 

And  heaven's  clear  arch  is  o'er  him  bending 

I've  seen  him  when  the  rising  sun 

Shone  like  a  watch-fire  on  the  height ; 
I've  seen  him  when  the  day  was  done, 

Bathed  in  the  evening's  crimson  light ; 
I've  seen  him  in  the  midnight  hour, 

When  all  the  world  beneath  Avere  sleeping, 
Like  some  lone  sentry  in  his  tower 

His  patient  watch  in  silence  keeping. 

And  there,  as  ever  steep  and  clear, 

That  pyramid  of  Nature  springs  ! 
He  owns  no  rival  turret  near, 

No  sovereign  but  the  King  of  kings  : 
While  many  a  nation  hath  passed  by, 

And  many  an  age  unknown  in  story, 
His  walls  and  battlements  on  high 

He  rears  in  melancholy  glory. 


MONADNOCK.  433 


And  let  a  world  of  human  pride 

With  all  its  grandeur  melt  away, 
And  spread  around  his  rocky  side 

The  broken  fragments  of  decay  ; 
Serene  his  hoary  head  will  tower, 

Untroubled  by  one  thought  of  sorrow  : 
He  numbers  not  the  weary  hour ; 

He  welcomes  not  nor  fears  to-morrow. 

Farewell !     I  go  my  distant  way  : 

Perhaps,  not  far  in  future  years, 
The  eyes  that  glow  with  smiles  to-day 

May  gaze  upon  thee  dim  with  tears. 
Then  let  me  learn  from  thee  to  rise, 

All  time  and  chance  and  change  defying, 
Still  pointing  upward  to  the  skies, 

And  on  the  inward  strength  relying. 

If  life  before  my  weary  eye 

Grows  fearful  as  the  angry  sea, 
Thy  memory  shall  suppress  the  sigh 

For  that  which  never  more  can  be ; 
Inspiring  all  within  the  heart 

With  firm  resolve  and  strong  endeavor 
To  act  a  brave  and  faithful  part, 

Till  life's  short  warfare  ends  for  ever. 


1824, 


37 


434 


ON   SEEING  A  DECEASED  INFANT. 


And  this  is  death  !  how  cold  and  still, 

And  yet  how  lovely  it  appears  ! 
Too  cold  to  let  the  gazer  smile, 

But  far  too  beautiful  for  tears. 
The  sparkling  eye  no  more  is  bright, 

The  cheek  hath  lost  its  rose-like  red ; 
And  yet  it  is  with  strange  delight 

I  stand  and  gaze  upon  the  dead. 

But  when  I  see  the  fair  wide  brow 

Half  shaded  by  the  silken  hair. 
That  never  looked  so  fair  as  now, 

When  life  and  health  were  laughing  there, 
I  wonder  not  that  grief  should  swell 

So  wildly  upward  in  the  breast, 
And  that  strong  passion  once  rebel, 

That  need  not,  cannot  be  suppressed. 

I  wonder  not  that  parents'  eyes, 

In  gazing  thus,  grow  cold  and  dim  ; 
That  burning  tears  and  aching  sighs 

Are  blended  with  the  funeral  hymn. 
The  spirit  hath  an  earthly  part, 

That  weeps  when  earthly  pleasure  flies  ; 
And  Heaven  would  scorn  the  frozen  heart 

That  melts  not  when  the  infant  dies. 


ON  SEEING  A  DECEASED  INFANT.  435 

And  yet  why  mourn  ?  That  deep  repose 

Shall  never  more  be  broke  by  pain  ; 
Those  lips  no  more  in  sighs  unclose, 

Those  eyes  shall  never  weep  again. 
For  think  not  that  the  blushing  flower 

Shall  wither  in  the  churchyard  sod : 
'Twas  made  to  gild  an  angel's  bower 

Within  the  paradise  of  God. 

Once  more  I  gaze,  —  and  swift  and  far 

The  clouds  of  death  and  sorrow  fly  ; 
I  see  thee  like  a  new-born  star, 

Move  up  thy  pathway  in  the  sky  : 
The  star  hath  rays  serene  and  bright, 

But  cold  and  pale  compared  with  thine  ; 
For  thy  orb  shines  with  heavenly  light, 

With  beams  unfailing  and  divine. 

Then  let  the  burthened  heart  be  free, 

The  tears  of  sorrow  all  be  shed, 
And  parents  calmly  bend  to  see 

The  mournful  beauty  of  the  dead  ; 
Thrice  happy  that  their  infant  bears 

To  Heaven  no  darkening  stain  of  sin, 
And  only  breathed  life's  morning  airs 

Before  its  evening  storms  begin. 

Farewell  !  I  shall  not  soon  forget ! 

Although  thy  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat, 
My  memory  warmly  treasures  yet 

Thy  features  calm  and  mildly  sweet. 
But  no  :    that  look  is  not  the  last ; 

We  yet  may  meet  where  seraphs  dwell, 
Where  love  no  more  deplores  the  past, 


Nor  breathes  that  withering  word,  —  Farewell 


is: 


436 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM, 


AND   THE  WATERS  WERE  ABATED.' 


#         *         *         *         #         *         *         # 

Now  life  looks  smiling  on  the  world  again ; 
The  bright  waves  dance,  the  ocean  lifts  its  voice, 
Rejoicing  that  its  work  of  death  is  done  ; 
The  forests  send  from  out  their  caverned  green 
The  solemn  fulness  of  the  organ's  tone, 
Deep  as  it  rolls  in  temples  made  with  hands  ; 
The  boundless  fields  unroll  their  velvet  green, 
Where  the  tired  eye  may  rest  with  calm  delight ; 
The  infant  buds  burst  all  their  prisoning  shells, 
And  varied  brilliants  gem  the  hills  and  vales 
Like  sprinklings  from  the  morning's  changing  cloud, 
Or  the  fallen  rainbow  shivered  into  flowers. 
But  high  o'er  all  the  rainbow  firmly  springs  ; 
For  now  the  sun  hath  scaled  the  barrier  hills, 
And,  slowly  rising  from  his  mountain-throne, 
Smiles  on  the  lovely  stranger  of  the  heavens 
That  fronts  him  on  the  purple  robe  of  clouds, 
Whose  dark  folds  roll  in  majesty  away. 
'Tis  beautiful  !     Admiring  hearts  and  eyes 
Are  wondering  raised,  as  if  the  angel  files, 
With  arms  yet  burning  from  the  radiant  blaze, 
Thronged  in  bright  circle  round  the  long-lost  world, 
To  hail  its  rising  from  its  watery  tomb. 


43' 


"lis  beautiful !  —  and  all  their  hearts  are  peace ; 
No  more  they  ponder  on  the  lately  dead, 
Or  dream  how  soon  their  own  despair  may  come  ; 
Their  fears  and  sorrows  find  repose  at  last, 
For  God  hath  said  it,  and  their  hearts  reply 
That  God's  own  hand  hath  bent  its  arching  tower, 
And  joined  its  colored  circles  in  the  heaven, 
That  all  might  read  the  language  of  his  love, 
Oft  as  it  drives  the  angry  storm  away, 
And  breathes  its  calmness  on  the  world  below. 
Man  would  have  stamped  it  in  recording  brass, 
Or  graved  it  in  the  everlasting  rock ; 
But  God  hath  framed  it  finer  than  the  air, 
With  tints  as  frail  as  those  of  slenderest  flowers, 
Or  evening  clouds  that  fade  beneath  the  view. 

Thousands  of  years  have  risen  and  passed  away,  — 
Stars  have  expired,  and  yet  the  rainbow  lives 
In  all  the  brightness  of  its  earlier  light, 
On  Nature's  festivals  to  span  the  heavens, 
Till  the  last  heart  of  man  shall  cease  to  beat, 
When  mountains  melt,  and  rocks  are  rent  with  fires. 
And  ocean  rolls  its  latest  wave  away. 

1826. 


37* 


43S 


MAN  GIVETH  UP  THE  GHOST,  AND  WHERE 
IS  HE?" 


Where  is  he  ?     Hark  !  his  lonely  home 

Is  answering  to  the  mournful  call ! 
The  setting  sun  with  dazzling  blaze 

May  fire  the  windows  of  his  hall ; 
But  evening  shadows  quench  the  light, 

And  all  is  cheerless,  cold,  and  dim, 
Save  where  one  taper  wakes  at  night, 

Like  weeping  love  remembering  him. 

Where  is  he  ?     Hark  !  the  friend  replies  : 

"  I  watched  beside  his  dying  bed, 
And  heard  the  low  and  struggling  sighs 

That  gave  the  living  to  the  dead ; 
I  saw  his  weary  eyelids  close, 

And  then  —  the  ruin  coldly  cast, 
Where  all  the  loving  and  beloved, 

Though  sadly  parted,  meet  at  last." 

Where  is  he  ?     Hark  !  the  marble  says, 

That  "  here  the  mourners  laid  his  head  ; 
And  here  sometimes,  in  after-days, 

They  came,  and  sorrowed  for  the  dead : 
But  one  by  one  they  passed  away, 

And  soon  they  left  me  here  alone 
To  sink  in  unobserved  decay,  — 

A  nameless  and  neglected  stone." 


"  MAN    GIVETH    UP    THE    GHOST,"    ETC.  439 

Where  is  he  ?     Hark  !  'tis  Heaven  replies  : 

"  The  star-beam  of  the  purple  sky, 
That  looks  beneath  the  evening's  brow, 

Mild  as  some  beaming  angel's  eye, 
As  calm  and  clear  it  gazes  down, 

Is  shining  from  the  place  of  rest, 
The  pearl  of  his  immortal  crown, 

The  heavenly  radiance  of  the  blest !  " 


440 


PERICLES, 

When  his  friends  and  family  were  dead,  and  he  himself  was  disgraced  by  the 
Athenians,  showed  no  sign  of  emotion,  till,  at  the  funeral  of  his  last  surviv- 
ing son,  he  burst  into  tears  as  he  attempted  to  place  the  funeral  garland  on 
his  head. 


"  Who  are  these  with  mournful  tread, 
Wailing  for  the  youthful  dead  r 
Wherefore  do  the  following  crowd 
Breathe  their  sullen  murmurs  loud  ?  — 
And  He  ?  the  gathering  crowds  retire 
Before  his  eye's  commanding  fire  : 
The  lines  of  age  are  in  his  face, 
But  time  bends  not  his  martial  grace, 

Nor  sorrow  bows  his  head  ; 
And,  while  the  maddening  throng  condemn. 
He  hath  not  even  a  thought  for  them  : 

His  soul  is  with  the  dead !  " 

Stranger,  'twould  fire  my  aged  cheek 
That  deeply  injured  name  to  speak  : 
'Twas  once  the  Athenian's  breath  of  life, 
The  watchword  of  the  bloodiest  strife  : 
For,  when  he  led  the  marshalled  brave, 
His  galley  rode  the  foremost  wave  ; 
And,  when  the  thundering  shock  began, 
His  sword  was  blazing  in  the  van. 

Who  hath  not  seen  the  stormy  crowd 
Before  his  mild  persuasion  bowed ; 


PERICLES.  44  L 

Or  sunk  to  earth  as  o'er  them  passed 
His  burning  accents  fierce  and  fast  ? 
Like  the  breeze  the  meadow  bending, 

Lightly  in  its  evening  play, 
Like  the  storm  the  mountain  rending, 

Hurrying  on  its  whirl  wind- way, 
He  told  the  funeral  praise  of  those 
Who  fell  before  our  Samian  foes  ; 
He  made  our  hearts  with  rapture  swell, 
That  Athens  triumphed  when  they  fell : 
But  when  he  changed  the  scene  again, 
And  showed  them  bleeding  on  the  plain, 

Far  from  all  that  life  endears, 
We  wept  for  those  ill-fated  men, 
And  knew  not  which  was  mightiest  then, 

The  glory  or  the  tears. 

Look  within  that  marble  court, 

Where  the  sculptured  fount  is  playing ; 

See  the  youth,  in  innocent  sport, 
Each  his  mimic  fleet  arraying ; 

See  the  yellow  sunbeams  fall 

Through  the  garden's  wreathing  wall, 

Where  fruit-groves  paint  with  sweetness  lean 

Their  ponderous  flakes  of  massy  green, 

In  which  the  mansion's  turrets  sleep 

Like  sunny  islands  in  the  deep. 

Those  courts  are  mine  ;   and,  but  for  him, 

My  blood  had  died  that  fountain's  brim  : 

And  cold  and  blackened  ruins  pressed 

The  spot  so  peaceful,  calm,  and  ble^t. 

Look  round  on  many  a  roof,  excelling 
The  splendor  of  a  prince's  dwelling  ; 


442  PERICLES. 

And  mark  those  groves  in  shady  ranks, 
Climbing  up  the  marble  banks 

To  where  yon  dark  hill  towers 
Like  Athens  in  her  virgin  pride, 
Surveying  far  on  every  side 

Her  wide-extended  powers. 
Look  !   for  my  aged  eyes  are  dim,  — 
'Tis  glorious  !  and  'tis  all  from  him. 
The  Parthenon  rears  its  pearly  crown, 
Fair,  as  if  Heaven  had  sent  it  down  ; 
But  he  that  temple  upward  threw, 
Against  the  clear  transparent  blue. 
Like  our  own  goddess,  from  the  head 

Of  Jove  in  youth  immortal  springing, 
A  gentle  grace  is  round  it  shed, 

Far,  far  abroad  its  radiance  flinging. 
The  many-colored  tints  of  day 
Around  its  finish  love  to  play, 
And  gild  its  pillars  light  and  proud, 
As  gravings  from  the  evening  cloud  ; 
He  made  the  marble  spring  to  earth 
In  all  this  loveliness  of  birth  ; 
A  thing  for  nations  to  adore 
And  love,  but  never  rival  more. 

Go  to  the  battle's  stormy  plain, 
Where  clanging  squadrons  charge  again, 
And  r^ad  the  war-cry  on  their  lips  ; 
Or  go  to  Athens'  thousand  ships, 
And  ask  what  name  of  power  presides 
Above  the  battle  of  the  tides  ; 
And  when  the  harp  of  after-days 
Is  ringing  high  to  notes  of  praise, 


PERICLES.  1  lo 

Go,  read  what  name  has  longest  hung 
Upon  the  true  Athenian's  tongue. 

Injured  old  man  !  and  can  it  be, 
Thy  country  hath  rewarded  thee, 
By  striving  with  ungenerous  aim 
To  change  thy  glory  into  shame  ?  " 

Death  struck  the  dearest  from  his  side, 

Till  none  were  left  but  one  ; 
And  now  he  mourns  that  only  pride, 

His  sole  surviving  son. 
He  kept  the  sternness  of  his  heart, 

The  brightness  of  his  eye  ; 
But  death  hath  struck  the  tenderest  part, 

And  he  begins  to  die. 
He  hath  none  left  to  bear  disgrace.  — 

Oh  may  it  fall  on  Athens'  race  ! 
May  they  go  down  to  well-earned  graves 
Of  thankless  and  dishonored  slaves  ! 
How  many  a  time  in  future  years 
Shall  they  recall  with  hopeless  tears 
That  glorious  day's  departed  sun, 
When  Athens  and  renown  were  one. 
Then  the  Greek  maid  will  fain  discover 
Thy  spirit  in  her  youthful  lover  ; 
And  matrons  press  their  infants'  charms 
With  warmer  triumph  in  their  arms, 
When  breathing  prayers  that  they  may  see 
Their  darling  child  resembling  thee  !  " 

The  hero  by  the  burial  stands 

With  head  declined  and  folded  hands  : 


444  PERICLES. 

But  when  he  vainly  tries  to  spread 
The  garland  on  that  marble  head, 
At  once  upon  his  memory  throng 
The  thoughts  of  unresented  wrong  ; 
The  thankless  land  he  could  not  save, 
The  home  now  colder  than  the  grave  ; 
And  bursts  of  grief,  with  sudden  start, 
Spring  upward  in  his  withered  heart. 
'Tis  but  a  moment,  —  and  'tis  past; 
That  moment's  frenzy  is  the  last : 

His  eye  no  more  is  dim. 
But  bitterer  tears  than  these  shall  fall 
Within  the  guilty  city's  wall, 

When  Athens  weeps  for  him. 

1826. 


L  I  X  E  S     T  O 


She  died  "  »3  the  jrass 
Wind)  witliereth  afore  it  srroTeth  up; 
Wherewith  the  mower  filleth  D 
Neither  he  that  bindeth  sheavej  !ua  bo30m." 


While  the  poor  wanderer  of  life  is  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
There  will  be  hours  when  hearts  look  back  to  dear   de- 
parted years  : 
Around  him  night  is  falling  fast,  he  feels  the  evening  chills, 
But  sees  warm  sunshine  lingering  yet  on  youth's  far-dis- 
tant hills. 

The  lovely  form  of  youthful  hope  revisits  his  sad  heart, 
And  joy  that  long  since  bade  farewell,  but  could  not  quite 

depart, 
And  friendship  once  so  passing  sweet,  too  pure  and  strong 

to  die, 
And  those  delicious  tears  of  love  he  did  not  wish  to  dry. 

Oft  I  remember  thus,  and  feel  the  mystery  of  the  hour : 
I  know  not  then  if  joy  or  grief  possess  the  mightier  power : 
While  many  a  loved  departed  one  'tis  pleasure  to  recall, 
'Tis  anguish  to  remember  thee,  the  loveliest  of  them  all. 

Yes  !    sadly  welcomed  and  with   tears  is   now,  and  long 

must  be, 
The  memory  of  my  parting  hour,  my  earliest  friend,  from 

thee  : 


446  LINES    TO 


For   common  hopes  and  common  joys  I  deeply  mourn 

apart ; 
But  the  remembrance  of  the  loss,  —  it  thunderstrikes  the 

heart. 

For,  oh  !  how  fast  and  fervently,  when  life  is  in  its  spring, 

Hand  bound  to  hand,  and  heart  to  heart,  the  young  affec- 
tions cling ; 

By  early  and  unaltering  love  our  souls  were  joined  in 
one, 

With  ties  that  death  hath  burst  indeed,  but  never  hath 
undone. 

Now   death    hath   thrown  us   wide   apart ;    but  memory 

treasures  yet  — 
Too  painful  to  remember  now,  too  lovely  to  forget  — 
Thy  manner  like  an  angel's  pure,  thy  mild  and  mournful 

grace, 
And  all  the  rosy  light  of  youth  that  kindled  in  thy  face ; 

The  open  brow  with  sunny  curls  around  its  arches  thrown, 

The  speaking  eye  through  which  the  soul  in  melting  ra- 
diance shone, 

The  smile  that  lighted  up  the  lip  with  bright  and  pensive 
glow, 

And  the  dark  shade  that  o'er  it  passed,  when  tears  began 
to  flow. 

And  then  how  sternly  beautiful  the  spirit  bold  and  high 
That  lighted  o'er  thy  marble  brow,  and  filled  thy  radiant 

eye, 
When,  seated  by  the  evening  fire,  or  rambling  side  by  side, 
We  read  how  holy  sufferers  lived,  or   glorious   martyrs 

died. 


LINES    TO 


4  47 


And  thus  with  feeling  all  the  same,  with  bright  and  ear- 
nest eye, 

We  held  communion  long  and  sweet  with  ocean,  earth, 
and  sky  : 

They  told  the  glory  of  our  God,  they  bore  our  thoughts 
above, 

And  made  us  purer  as  we  heard  their  eloquence  of  love. 

And  so  within   the   temple-walls  we  stood  with  childish 

awe, 
And  wondered  why  our  fathers  feared  a  God  they  never 

saw, 
Till  we  had  learned  and  loved  to  raise  our  early  offering 

there, 
To  join  the  deep  and  plaintive  hymn,  or  pour  our  souls 

in  prayer. 

Was  this  a  happiness  too  pure  for  erring  man  to  know  ? 
Or  why  did  Heaven  so  soon  destroy  my  happiness  below  ? 
For,  lovely  as  the  vision  was,  it  sunk  away  as  soon 
As  when,  in  quick  and  cold  eclipse,  the   sun  grows   dark 
at  noon. 

I  gazed  with  trembling  in  thine  eye,  —  its  living  light  was 

fled; 
Upon  thy  cheek  was  deeply  stained  the  cold  unusual  red  : 
The  violet  vein  that  wandered  up  beneath  thy  shining  hair 
Contrasted  with  thy  snowy  brow,  —  the  seal  of  death  was 

there  ! 

And  then  thy  sweet  and  gentle  voice  confirmed   that  we 

must  part,  — 
That  voice  whose  every  tone,  till  then,  was  music  to  my 

heart  : 


4  I  $  LINES    TO 


I    shuddered   at    the  warning  words,  —  I   could   not   let 

thee  go, 
And  leave  me  journeying  here  alone  in   weariness   and 

woe. 

But  thou  art  gone,  too  early  gone,  and   I  am  doomed  to 

stay, 
Perhaps  till  many  a  year  has  rolled  its  weary  weight  away  : 
Thou  wast  the  glory  of  my  heart,  my  hopes  were  heavenly 

fair, 
But  now  my  guiding  star  is  set  in  darkness  and  despair. 

'Tis  thus  the  stream  in  early  life  before  us  seems  to  run, 
Now  stealing  through  the  fragrant  shade,  now  sparkling 

in  the  sun  : 
But  soon  it  breaks  upon  the  rock  with  wild  and  mournful 

roar, 
Or,  heavily  spread  upon  the  plain,  lies  slumbering  on  the 

shore. 

1826. 


L 


